Serez vous mienne?
by Arcelia
Summary: Christine made Erik a promise, so long ago she can't remember...but Erik can, and now its time for the promise to be kept, in a twist that changes too much but not enough. Modern, Dark, with elements of Leroux and Kay - and as always, EC.
1. Chapter 1

**Yes, I've started another multi-chapter fic. Don't kill me.**

**Disclaimer: I'll be drawing off character-background plots from a extremely brilliant, extremely underrated manga called Dazzle (or Hatenkou Yuugi, if you want the Japanese name.)**

**They aren't big enough references for this to become a crossover; mainly similar aspects in the back-stories of a couple of characters. I thought it would be ethical/moral if I informed everyone, though.**

**Basically, this story is (hopefully) different to anything else I've written - most particularly in my characterisation of Erik and Christine. Especially Erik. If you've read my one-shots...yes. That sort of thing. Except he'll be more brilliant, more dark, and more insane, in a dark brilliant way. Also, I'm rather hoping this story will turn out better; though if the beginning's anything to go by...**

**Anyway, I'd really appreciate criticism on this story - some of the aspects are going to be a bit...bizarre. And I like criticism. Unless its on my hair, or my font, or the way I draw treble clefs.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Looming trees, darkened by the fall of night, surround the small clearing. Like a prison, they stand guard against the near-impossible escape of their captive from the cage within._

_She waits; still within the stick-drawn circle, back straight, eyes staring forward unseeingly. The wind, lightly ruffling her pretty dress and tossing her unruly curls, has no effect on her._

_She waits._

"_What are you doing?"_

_The surprise she feels, hearing a stranger's voice in such a place, is dulled by the numbness pervading her body and mind._

"_What are you doing?"_

_Melodious and beautiful though the voice might be, the person is starting to get on her nerves. In fact, the voice makes it all the more worse._

"_Why are you standing over there?"_

_Irritation takes over; enough that she forces herself to answer the man, hoping the answer is enough to satisfy him._

"_I'm waiting." Now leave me alone._

"_Waiting for what?"_

_What are you waiting for, little girl…?_

_

* * *

_

"Father!" Christine groaned, "is it even _possible _to drive any slower?!" Her father's glance held quite a large degree of smug complacency – which of course served merely to make her the angrier.

"You'll live, dear," he told her, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

"But I'm going to be _late_!"

"I don't care. I refuse to be fined simply because you weren't able to spend less than half an hour on your hair."

"But it's my audition! And it's opera - you said yourself that being on time is important! Do you really want me to be late for my first audition?" she pleaded.

He shrugged. "It's your hair, too. And if you really want to blame something, blame New York traffic."

She struggled for some sort of comeback, but was forced to admit to herself that he was right - about the traffic, anyway. She refused to consider the comment about her hair.

With a "hmph!" of annoyance, she leant back into the seat, and tried to force herself to calm down.

"I'm going to be late…!" she moaned again. Stifling a grin, her father shrugged with deliberate indifference.

* * *

"And who might you be?"

Her heart sank just a bit more as she wearily turned to see one of the many rich-looking, pretty girls there at audition looking down on her haughtily.

"Christine Daaé," she answered meekly, trying to look as humble and unthreatening as possible. Somehow, she had retained the futile hope that she wouldn't attract the attention of any of these people.

And, for all of about 5 minutes, she thought she had pulled it off; even though she had ran in panting, face flushed from exertion, most of the other entrants had barely spared her a glance - they were too busy bemoaning the state of their hair, or reapplying makeup.

"Really?" the other girl sneered, looking her up and down. Though she was tempted to meet the girl's eyes, Christine managed to keep her gaze averted.

"Hmph." The dismissive, contemptuous sniff infuriated Christine, enough that she looked up.

"And what's _your_ name?"

Though she looked slightly surprised, Christine's new acquaintance didn't seem to have noticed the tone of annoyance in her voice.

"I'm Carlotta Giudicelli," Christine was informed, with all the arrogance of an overly-made-up rich man's daughter in the deliverer's tone.

"That's nice," she said politely, as she sat herself cross-legged on the welcoming carpet. It was quite a nice carpet, as far as carpets went – far nicer than the girl standing near her, in any case – the girl who seemed to still be standing near her, actually; as if she was waiting for something. The silence seemed somewhat…outraged, if that was possible.

_How on earth can one create an emotional silence?_ Christine thought with a certain degree of amazement, as she resigned herself to acknowledging the taller, older-looking girl's presence.

"Yes?" Christine asked, still with the polite tone, as she looked up once more – after all, her father always told her that offending people was not necessarily a good thing - according to him, it tended to get one killed.

_Sometimes I wonder what he used to do before he became a musician..._

"You…" there was, unsurprisingly, a large amount of outrage in that one syllable, "do you know who I _am_?!"

_Is this a trick question? _Christine asked herself. Perhaps this was part of the audition – seeing how long an applicant's memory span was, or something along those lines? It wouldn't be surprising – the room that they were in seemed so expensive and elaborate, after all, that it hardly seemed possible that its only purpose was to serve as a _waiting _room.

She smiled as inoffensively as possible. "Of course; you introduced yourself just then. Carlotta Giudicelli, wasn't it?" Christine smiled again. "It's a nice name," she added, for good measure. "Italian, isn't it?"

"How can you – well, yes, it is," Carlotta admitted, seeming slightly taken-aback by Christine's last question. "But _anyway_," she rushed, as giggles and murmurs started to ripple through the crowd of girls, "how can you _not _know who _I _am?"

A slight frown touched Christine's features, despite her best efforts. "Well," she attempted to reason with the other girl, "I've never met you before, and I don't really know anything about you, so…" she trailed off there.

More girls were starting to laugh, and Carlotta's scowl deepened slightly.

"You mean to say," Carlotta asked disbelievingly, "you've never heard of _me_? You've never heard of Antonio Giudicelli?"

Christine thought for a moment.

"No, I would have to say no…but he must be your father," she surmised. "It's alright," she said, suddenly understanding, and she felt a sudden wave of pity for the girl. "That's the thing with coming from a small town to a big city – you live in a small town for a long time, and everyone knows you by your parents – but then you come to somewhere like here and no one's ever heard of them even though you expect them to."

The attempted smile of sympathy and understanding seemed to have failed, much to Christine's dismay. There were actual gasps from some of the onlookers, and Carlotta's features darkened (was it possible?) even further.

"You little…" she started to hiss, but then the door opened, and a man walked in. He was Middle-Eastern, Christine realised with surprise – it was strange to see someone like that in an opera house.

"Greetings, ladies," he said smilingly, white teeth flashing, "My name is Nadir Khan; I'm co-manager of the Metropolitan Opera, and I'll be one of the judges today." He looked around the room as he spoke, evidently taking in the general atmosphere and Carlotta's not-quite-faded scowl.

_Co-manager?_ That was strange - she had thought there was only one manager - some old fat man, if she remembered correctly. Certainly she would have recalled _this _man...

"It's certainly nice to see you all getting along," the man commented, raising an eyebrow. Christine smiled, partly due to the words, and mostly because of the ugly flush that rose on Carlotta's face.

Opening the door wider, he gestured with one hand. "If you would like to enter…"

The last to go through the door, Christine ventured a small smile in the Middle-Eastern man's direction; he winked at her, and her smile broadened. And then it disappeared completely, as she followed the other girls onto the huge, ominously unwelcoming stage.

_I should be fine_, she tried to reassure herself. _As long as I don't faint, anyway..._

Somehow, as they stood on the stage and gazed out into the empty audience seats, fainting didn't seem that unrealistic a possibility.

* * *

**Yep, I'm going to ask the dreaded question.**

**How was it?**

**This chapter wasn't very impressive (though I like the beginning). But it actually gets better, and I should know because I've written the next chapter and half of third.**

**As I've said before, and have probably said every chapter of every story I've posted, I welcome criticism, the chance expression of adoration, etc.**

**That said...enjoy your day?**

**Arcèlia**


	2. Chapter 2

**I changed the title; the "la" was technically correct, but slightly iffy. Ah well...such is life.**

**Terribly sorry, but I seem to have lost all sarcastic inspiration. I'm too tired from film production and...other stuff. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO (either book or movie.) And the song _Meme Si _is (obviously) not mine.**

**So yeah...enjoy, thanks to everyone who reviewed before, and reviews are nice...**

**(Gods, I'm so dead...)**

* * *

**  
**

**Chapter 2**

"Carlotta Giudicelli?"

The Italian girl strode forwards arrogantly, causing Christine to almost worry that she would fall off the stage. _Almost_ worry.

"I'm Carlotta Giudicelli," she announced flamboyantly – as if her name had not just been spoken – "and I'm 23 years old. I've been singing since I was 5, and-"

"Thank you, Miss Giudicelli," the speaker interrupted hastily; and once again only obedience to her father stopped Christine from rolling her eyes. _She _acts _like she's 5 years old_, she couldn't help thinking cattily, and she berated herself for the thought.

"What are you going to sing today, Miss Giudicelli? Simply the song name and composer, if you please."

A smile found its way onto Christine's face – but faded when she heard the song choice. It all but vanished when the girl started to sing.

The girls around her started to murmur to each other, sounding almost as surprised as Christine felt. "She's singing _O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn_?!" one of them groaned. "There's no way _we're _going to have any chance of getting the main role, now…!"

As Christine listened to Carlotta's singing, any remnants of hope flickered out. The song, an aria from the _Magic Flute_, was one of the most difficult arias for a female in the whole of opera, for a role – the Queen of the Night, from the Magic Flute – that was arguably _the _most challenging in the entire operatic repertoire. Even Christine, who was woefully uneducated in the complexities of the classical vocal world, knew that pulling off a song like that would almost guarantee her the lead role.

She could feel her stomach roiling. _Perhaps I shouldn't have eaten breakfast today_, she thought ruefully. _I mightn't have yelled at Father, then_ _– but then he would have accused me of dieting or something, and we would have started fighting anyway…_

"Thank you, Miss Giudicelli," the emotionless voice said, and Christine realised with a start that Carlotta's voice had stopped. Looking over at the girl, she was both amused and terrified by the smug expression on her face. It rather reminded Christine of a fat cat who had just finished all the cream.

"Christine Daaé?"

_Me? Oh, _darn.

Somehow, her legs carried her forwards.

"What will you be singing today?"

She took a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing…_

* * *

_  
_

Nadir slipped into his seat, not really surprised at the presence of the other man.

"Hello," he greeted the black-clothed figure. His only acknowledgment was a slight nod of the head which would have gone un-noticed by anyone else.

"I thought you didn't like listening to auditions?"

A shrug, this time – once again, barely perceptible.

"What do you think of the applicants so far?" Nadir asked persistently, determined to get some sort of sound out of his companion.

A sigh.

Nadir waited patiently.

"Some of them are passable," a musical voice said finally, "but half of them have no tone to speak of, and the other half have no real meaning in their voice. Some of them have neither."

"You can't reject them all," Nadir pointed out, and there was another sigh – this time, one of weary despair.

"The horrors of the modern world…"

Despite himself, Nadir smiled, as he relaxed back into the large couch-like seat, watching the girl that was currently singing; she seemed to be nearing the conclusion of her song.

"This one-way glass is certainly useful," he commented, more to fill the silence between the two of them than for any other reason. Beside him, the shadowy mass shifted.

"Would that it were soundproof, as well."

Nadir was distracted from pointing out the inherent purposelessness in that suggestion, by the excessively high-pitched sound coming from the girl's throat. Wincing, he forced himself to pay closer attention to the song – but as he heard the unmistakeable, distinctive words, he gasped.

"_O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn_?"

"My congratulations. You successfully identified the song."

After a short internal debate, Nadir decided against making a sarcastic remark – he hadn't yet determined the mood of his strange companion, and years of acquaintance had taught him caution. Caution, and fear.

"What is your opinion of Miss Giudicelli's voice?"

Nadir raised an eyebrow – and not because of the question. "Miss Giudicelli? So she's Antonio Giudicelli's daughter?"

An elegant hand was waved in dismissal. "I'm not particularly concerned with parentage, Nadir."

Nadir scowled. "Yes, well that's because you're not the one who has to worry about the finances-"

"What is your opinion of her voice?"

After glaring for some time at his companion, who payed him no attention, Nadir gave up and answered. "Isn't it obvious? The girl seems quite talented – her range is obviously impressive, and her tone was quite controlled."

Though he couldn't be quite sure, it seemed as though his companion smiled.

"You really think so?"

He was silent for a moment, as he considered the question. "No doubt…" Nadir finally said, "she has had quite thorough training – she doesn't lack emotion, and her technical finesse is quite refined…"

The silence that fell between them was thoughtful, this time. Miss Giudicelli finished her performance and stepped away, evidently quite pleased with her singing.

"Christine Daaé?"

_Ah…this girl_. With even more interest than before, he leant forwards slightly. This was the one who had been facing down the other one – Miss Giudicelli, he now realised. Evidently no mean feat, if the girl at all took after her father…Turning to make a remark to the man next to him, he froze just before the words left his lips.

Even though his companion's face was concealed, Nadir could almost _taste _the intense concentration that would be echoed in the expression under that mask; the entire black-garmented frame was rigid with tension. In that moment, Nadir was thankful that he had not spoken – else the burning eyes that he could still see (no matter how much he wished not to) would have been directed at him, and that terrible gaze…

"What will you be singing today?"

The girl looked like she were going to faint – Nadir was slightly worried that she might _actually _faint – but then she took a noticeably deep breath, and her eyes firmed.

"I'm singing the song _Meme Si_, by Lucie Silvas and Grégory Lemarchal."

_One surprise after another…_

"A terrible choice of song." The verdict was pronounced coolly and calmly, but there was the slightest, curious, hint of disappointment in his tone.

"Really?"

An elegant shrug (everything the man did was elegant, Nadir noted). "A bi-language, modern, main-stream pop song for an opera audition? Surely even _you _are able to see the flaws in such a choice."

Ignoring the insult rooted in the words, Nadir was forced to admit that he was probably right – at least in the first point. Years in an industry that revolved on a variety of languages showed that someone singing their native language in a comparison to another was the surest way to demonstrate a complete lack of skill in one – or sometimes both – languages.

But then the girl started to sing, and the concern in regards to her linguistic skill was made instantly void.

_Just like I predicted, we're at the point of no return__  
__We can go backwards, and no corners have been turned__  
__I can't control it, if I sink or if I swim__  
__'Cause I chose the water that I'm in_

_Ne jamais devoir choisir__  
__Avoir raison ou tort__  
__Au-delà de mes faiblesses__  
__J'ai la force d'y croire encore__  
__Même si l'amour s'enfuit__  
__J'en inventerai les couleurs__  
__S'il est trop tard, pour revenir,__  
__Je remonterai les couleurs_

_And it makes no difference who is right or wrong__  
__I deserve much more than this__  
__'Cause there's only one thing I want__  
__If it's not what you're made of__  
__You're not what I'm looking for__  
__You were willing but unable to give me anymore_

_Même si l'amour s'enfuit__  
__J'en inventerai les couleurs__  
__S'il est trop tard pour revenir__  
__Je remonterai les heures__  
__Et ce dont je suis fait, tout entier__  
__Je saurai te le rendre__  
__Même s'il faut tout apprendre__  
__Même s'il faut tout apprendre__  
__Même s'il faut tout apprendre__  
_

The girl had extremely good tonal quality; that was definite. No, not merely _good_ – it was amazing. It was obvious that, unlike Miss Giudicelli, Miss Daaé had not been the subject of years of singing lessons – in fact, the untrained quality in the singer's voice led Nadir to the conclusion that she must not have had _any _lessons, at all. Regardless, there was vast potential evident in that voice.

Unfortunately, potential meant next-to nothing in the cut-throat world of opera. And what was more, there was…nothing.

Nothing in the words she was saying, nothing in the tone, that indicated any sort of emotion or feeling. No heart, no…soul? Though Nadir's French was quite abysmal, he knew enough to be able to discern the general meaning of the un-English stanzas – and that, coupled with the understandable English…For some reason, Nadir felt himself become unreasonably _angry_, as he watched Miss Daaé. _ For Allah's sake, girl,_ he thought, _the song is about rejection! Dissatisfaction! _Love_! Shouldn't you at least _attempt _some emotion?_

But the mental messages of rage he was sending her did not seem to have any effect – her voice remained as cold and feeling-less as before. As the last note died away, Nadir glanced at his companion. The man's gaze was still fixed on the young brunette singer, though the tense energy around him seemed to have dissipated somewhat.

"Erik…?" Nadir asked uncertainly, but the masked face did not turn his way.

"Well met…Miss Daaé…"

The words were so soft Nadir was sure he had not heard them. _No,_ he told himself, _I must be hearing things_. In the entirety of their acquaintance-ship, Nadir had _never _known Erik to show any interest in a female, unless it was for her musical talent. And even then, the man couldn't care less for the individual. Besides, the girl was very short of spectacular – she barely even scraped past "good".

He had to be hearing things.

And yet… as Erik turned to him, there seemed to be the faintest remnants of a smile in his glowing golden eyes…

* * *

**I would translate, but...**

**Basically, it's about unfulfilled love, and the inclination for the relationship to break because it's not working.**

**Oh! And the male singer (who sang the French) is really good. He died of cystic fibrosis a couple of years ago. But he's really good. (I sound like an advertising agency.)**

**Erik came in fairly early, yes. I think I'm going to like this Erik...**

**So...um, yes. I have really lost any remnants of sarcastic wit within me. How very depressing. We should totally hold a funeral for it. "R.I.P, Arcèlia's sarcasm."**

**I hope you enjoyed...yeah...um...reviews are nice...thanks for reading. I'm getting sick of "..."s.**

**Arcèlia**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: An update. Finally. And it sucks (:**

**Enjoy...maybe. It's fairly unclimatic, this chapter. But I suppose that the unclimatic-ness is needed in order to contrast against the (hopefully soon-forthcoming) climaticness.**

**And none of that made sense...**

**Anyhow, I hope you like it, review if you wish, etc. etc.**

**(:**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The hallway was empty, except for her – perhaps that was why she could hear her footsteps so loudly, no matter how soft she tried to make the impact.

"Miss Daaé?"

Turning, somewhat surprised, Christine smiled politely at the Middle-Eastern man who had winked at her before.

"Hello, Mr…" To her embarrassment, she couldn't remember his name. And he had remembered hers! The man seemed to notice the discomfort in her expression, but his inquiry as to whether she was alright or not merely made her feel worse.

"Sorry, sir," she asked, mortification evident in her flushed features, "but-"

Comprehension dawned on his face; he laughed, and her blush grew the more red, till she realised that he was not laughing _at _her. "It's alright, Miss Daaé," he reassured her, still laughing. "You don't need to look as if I will kill you for not remembering my name."

And indeed, as she considered the expression on her face, she realised with some amusement how ridiculous she must have looked. A tentative smile touched her face at the thought, and he smiled back at her.

"Nadir Khan is the name, Miss Daaé." He bowed exaggeratedly, and she almost laughed – the old-fashioned courtesy was strangely out of place in this extravagant, modernised hallway.

He straightened, and started walking beside her.

"What are you doing here, Miss Daaé, wandering around these corridors all alone?"

"I didn't want to have to wait for an hour in that room with _those_" though she wanted to retract her emphasis on 'those', she continued "people. "And please call me Christine, Mr Khan," she added – "Miss Daaé makes me feel so old."

His teeth flashed in a smile. "I will call you Christine, if you call me Nadir – Mr Khan makes me realise how old I actually am, especially when called so by such a beautiful young woman."

The flush rose again – _could she not prevent herself from blushing all the time?_ – and she nodded hesitantly.

At first, she felt uncomfortable in Mr Khan – no, _Nadir_'s – presence. Certainly, she had never expected that she would be strolling with one of the managers of the Opera House in such a casual fashion! After a few moments of tenseness, however, she managed to calm herself down. Looking around as they walked through the vast maze of corridors, she marvelled at the beautiful, expensive-looking paintings which hung on the wall. _They must cost a fortune – and that's not even counting the frames_. The huge, elaborate gold-coated frames looked even more costly than the paintings themselves…

"So how did you find the audition, Christine?"

Along with surprise at the suddenly-broken silence, her nervousness returned, drying up her throat. How did she find the audition? How was _she _meant to know?

"Um…" she stammered, "I think I did alright – but I'm not sure. Some of the other girls were really good."

"Your audition piece was quite an interesting choice," he commented. Christine examined his expression, trying to see if there was any sarcasm or mockery intended – but he seemed perfectly sincere.

"What do you mean," she asked slowly, "by 'interesting'?"

Nadir's lips curved in an almost-smile, as if he were remembering something.

"A bi-language, modern, main-stream pop song for an opera audition," he said. The way he said the words gave the impression that he was quoting someone. "Interesting, wouldn't you think?"

She frowned. "You know, my father said the same thing."

"Really?" Nadir asked, sounding surprised. "Does your father sing as well?"

"No!" The idea of her father singing was enough to make her laugh – in fact, she _did _laugh. So did Nadir – a corner of her mind noted that he had a very pleasant laugh.

"Does the act of envisaging your father singing amuse you that much?"

"It's hard to explain," Christine said, "he just…oh," she exhaled, "he's the sort of person you have to meet for anything about them to make sense."

Nadir smiled, but there was, surprisingly, no humour in it.

"I know someone like that…" For a moment, a shadow seemed to cross Nadir's face – but it was gone in an instant, and when he met Christine's eyes again, the grin he gave her was as sincere as it had been before.

"So why did you choose the song?"

She shrugged. "I like it." Now that she thought about it, she'd had no logical justification for it. But...

"It's a nice song," she repeated, and she felt, rather than saw, his smile.

"If you insist," Nadir said gently.

As she considered the man beside her, it seemed hardly possible to Christine that he could be a manager; his open, friendly aura made him seem incapable of holding any sort of bureaucratic – and she told him so, with a frankness that surprised him almost as much as it did her.

"Co-manager, Miss – ah, my mistake, Christine," he corrected himself. "Though it works more on a "Nadir, you do the work and I'll take the credit for it" basis. But why is it so surprising for me to be a manager?"

She had to think about how to word her response properly, so as not to offend him.

"It's…" she began hesitantly, "sort of…strange. I don't know – I've always imagined people involved in running opera to be…well…"

"European?" He suggested, and Christine flushed.

"Well…yes," she said softly. "But that's not to say that I'm racist or anything!" she added swiftly. Her panic was not at all subdued by his comforting smile.

"It's alright," Nadir reassured her. "When I first started working here, I had many – _too _many – patrons asking me if I was not half-blooded, or whether my skin was not the result of a recessive gene finally coming out after centuries of repression." She gasped at his clinical words.

"But that – that's _horrible_!"

Nadir shrugged dismissively. "It's better than when I _first _came to America from Iran – the number of people asking me how many relatives I had seen die, and whether I knew, had seen, or was a terrorist…"

_That _was unexpected.

"And what did you tell them?"

"That I was actually leader of a secret terrorist organisation, and I had migrated to America to destroy this blasphemous, sacrilegious nation."

"Oh my," she murmured. "How did you explain the opera?"

"That I was completing afore-mentioned task by infiltrating through devious means the world of classical music; the aim being to warp the music industry and...Well, something like that, anyway."

His tone was deadly serious; but his eyes gave him away, liquid pools of humour; she found herself smiling with him, faintly.

Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he turned to Christine; the swiftness of his movement shocked her – enough that she somehow managed to trip over her own feet.

"I'm sorry," he said laughingly, as he offered her a hand – embarrassed, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

"I just remembered something I wanted to ask you," Nadir explained. "Are you French?"

"Pardon?" Christine was confused for a moment, till she remembered her audition piece. "_Oh..._" she exhaled. "That. Um, I was born in America - but my father was always insistent that knowing more than one language was really important."

"Really?"

"Yeah..."

"What do you speak?"

Christine frowned. "Mainly European languages, though I've always wanted to learn Arabic."

"Are you serious, or merely saying that to, as is commonly termed, 'suck up'?"

"I never suck up," Christine said indignantly (and falsely), "and have you ever seen _The Mummy_? Or _Prince of Egypt_?"

"That's Ancient Egyptian – or a rough approximation in any case – for the former, and Hebrew for the latter-"

"There you are, Nadir!"

They turned at the interruption, to see the man that Christine instantly recognised as being the _other _manager – figurehead, Christine thought automatically.

"I've been looking for you everywhere!" the short, portly man exclaimed in a shrill tone, wheezing slightly from exertion. His face was flushed an unhealthy shade of red-purple, almost as if he was angry. Christine took an instant dislike to the manager – which intensified when he glanced at her and looked away again, almost dismissively, as though she were nothing worth any sort of consideration.

Looking beside her at Nadir, she was comforted by the slight frown on his face; it was evident that he had also seen the look his co-manager – Mr Richards, if she recalled correctly – had cast her way.

"André," Nadir said calmly, his deep voice a sharp contrast to his colleague's high-pitched whine, "If I may introduce Miss Christine Daaé?"

Christine could feel the forcedness in her smile as Mr Richards graced her with a cursory glance.

"Charmed," he said perfunctorily. As soon as he looked away, she rolled her eyes.

"Nadir," the manager continued, still in the whiny tone, "the meeting has already begun! Where have you been?!"

The Iranian's tone was slightly sharp when he replied. "Much as it may sadden you to know, André, you _don't _need to know where I am all hours of the day." Without waiting for a reply, Nadir turned to Christine.

"It's been a pleasure, Christine," he said warmly, smiling down at her. She smiled back, shyly.

"The same for me."

He held out his hand; she looked uncomprehendingly at it for a moment, before realising his intention. Blushing, she took it. But rather than shaking her hand, as she'd expected, he adjusted the position of their hands so his was holding hers – and then he lifted it to his mouth, lips brushing softly across her skin.

Releasing her hand gently, Nadir once again flashed his teeth at her in a warm smile.

"Till later, Christine."

As he walked away with the still-red-faced André, Christine stared, still completely astonished, after him. It was only after a few minutes that she turned and began walking, still dazed, back to the room where the other auditioned girls were waiting.

* * *

**Reading that chapter makes me really appreciate every other chapter I've ever written.**

**It was...**

**(:**

**No comment.**

**If you somehow managed to garner some semblance of enjoyment/amusement etc. for yourself from that rather interesting example of writing, tell me! Or don't. Your call.**

**I will update again...sometime before I go to France...in 2 months...**

**Arcèlia**


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